


Bespoke

by moststeph



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Hollywood AU, M/M, actor!napoleon, agent!gaby, costume designer!illya, i forget how this started by i blame roisin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-25 17:11:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19750135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moststeph/pseuds/moststeph
Summary: Illya is a costume designer, Napoleon is an actor. They clash, of course. And then they don't. Gaby is there being competent and charming, as always.





	Bespoke

Illya glared at the petulant man before him and breathed in deeply. It had been a long time since someone had gotten under his skin like this and he'd forgotten how to focus and draw on his long-cultivated reserves of patience. He reminded himself that punching the lead of the film would probably get him fired, exhaled slowly, and gritted out,

“It doesn't. Have. To match.”

Napoleon snorted derisively, turning away from Illya to the full length mirror behind him. As he tugged on the front of his suit, Illya's delicately placed pins began to pull apart. 

“ _ Дерьмо _ ! Could you be the least bit careful, Cowboy?” Illya snapped, tugging Solo to face him. He pulled out his chalk and quickly marked where the pins lay, muttering to himself in Russian. 

“ _ The Magnificent Seven  _ came out five years ago, you know,” Solo said, fidgeting under Illya's hands. “Have you not seen any movies since then?” he continued, annoyed.

“You will always be cowboy to me,” Illya said, smirking at the actor. In truth Illya hadn't even seen the film, but had mentioned it when he first met Napoleon, immediately picking up on the man's uneasiness about his first starring role. ‘Cowboy’ had quickly become a key wrench in the ‘annoying Napoleon Solo’ toolkit.

“Ok, we are done,” Illya said, nodding to the assistant designer. He carefully helped Napoleon out of the 1940s ensemble. As soon as he was free of the clothes Solo strode off, pausing only to glance at another ensemble on a nearby mannequin and shoot over his shoulder, “Bowtie doesn't work with that suit.”

Illya ground his teeth and watched Solo walk away. 

***

Illya found Solo was no less irritating on set than in fittings. Actually he might have been  _ more _ irritating. He had opinions on everything, from the stunt set ups to the extras’ costumes. Illya was ready to kill him half the time. Yet when the camera rolled Illya found himself fascinated - Solo was like a chameleon, disappearing into his role like he'd always been a Resistance spy in Vichy France. As soon as Waverly yelled “Cut!” however, Napoleon was back to his arrogant, smug self. 

Today he was insistent that filming should halt until Illya had found him a suitable vest, because no man in the 1940s would've been caught dead without one. Waverly had tried to reason with Solo but he'd been obstinate, finally drawing Illya into the conversation which rapidly turned into the two of them bickering loudly.

“You don't need a vest for this scene!” Illya said to Solo, practically throwing up his hands in frustration. “No one was wearing three piece suits in 1944 France!” 

“Have you really never seen a classic film?” Napoleon snapped. “Three piece suits were a classic of the time.”

“No!” Illya shouted, at last losing his temper. “Three piece suits were in late 30s and early 40s,  _ da _ . But by 1944 all fibers went into military uniforms, not suits for men at home. So fabric was used sparingly, leading to all-time low of three-piece suits, cuffs, and ticket pockets. Or did you study fashion history for four years as well?” 

There was a stunned silence on set. Napoleon was staring at Illya with an expression he couldn't quite read. Then suddenly Solo broke into startled laughter, and grinned at Illya. 

“I like working with people who know what they're doing,” he said, still chuckling. “You’re all right, Peril.”

“Peril?” Illya echoed, stunned he'd won the argument. 

“The Red Peril. Russia.”

Illya glowered. Solo smiled winningly. 

“One nickname deserves another,” he said, smug.

After that, Solo antagonized Illya slightly less often, though he still liked to saunter up while Illya was working on someone else's costume and provide unsolicited advice. Within a few weeks of the shoot the antagonizing had transitioned into more of a friendly bickering, and Illya found himself looking forward to whatever Solo was going to throw at him that day. Napoleon seemed to get a kick out of Illya shutting him up, and Illya would've been lying to himself if he said he didn't enjoy doing it. 

***

“You're coming tonight, right?” Solo asked as Illya walked onto set the final morning of shooting. 

“Coming to what?” Illya asked. 

“The wrap party! I'm hosting it at my place tonight,” Solo replied, a small, genuine smile on his lips. 

“Ah,” Illya said, delaying. He failed to come up with any plausible excuse. “Um...yes?” 

Solo’s tentative smile became a full blown grin. “Excellent! We’ll start at 8, see you then.” 

After he walked away Illya realized he had no idea where Napoleon lived. He sighed and went to search for someone who knew where the ridiculous man resided.

***

Solo’s home was nothing like what Illya had expected - he’d been imagining the typical Hollywood McMansion, full of tacky modern art and ostentatious wealth. What he was greeted with, when he walked in the door, was a simple, cozy home with a truly astonishing art collection. Illya noted a Degas, a Monet - and my god, was that a Van Gogh? Illya wandered from painting to painting, entranced by the beauty before him. 

“Do you approve of my conspicuous capitalist wealth?” a voice asked, and Illya turned to find another beautiful thing in front of him. Solo grinned as he extended his hand to Illya, and they shook as Illya chuckled.    
  
“I think I have been too long out of Russia,” Illya smiled. “Because I do approve. Where did you find these pieces?”   
  
Solo looked a little embarrassed. “When I got my first big paycheck, I indulged a bit. Bought most of them from Sotheby’s, though that Monet was actually my grandfather’s. He brought it over from France when he emigrated.” 

“They are beautiful,” Illya said. “Not what I would have imagined in your home.”    
  


“What, you were expecting bull horns and rodeo photos?” Solo joked. “I’m not a cowboy, I just play one on TV. Can I get you a drink?”

Illya had never been one for parties, but he found himself lingering at Napoleon’s as the night drew on. More than anything he found himself lingering over Napoleon - he admired his easy manner with the cast and crew, and the way he made every person who came through the door like he’d been waiting all night for them. Illya was pleasantly surprised to find Solo knew everyone’s name - from the executive producer to the newest PA on set. He made a point to ask each person about their next job, their significant others, displaying a consideration Illya never would have expected from the self-important actor he’d met a few months before. And so Illya found himself nursing his Scotch and staying at the party far longer than he’d planned. 

“Illya!” Solo cried, appearing by the couch Illya was reclining on around midnight. “I want you to meet my agent, Gaby Teller.” 

Illya rose to shake hands with Gaby and found himself towering over her. Short and slim as she was, her handshake was firm as she gave him a small smile.

“So this is the famous Illya,” she said, a slight German accent clear in her speech. “I heard you had quite the disagreement with Napoleon on set,” she continued, the cat-like smile on her lips.

  
“Ah,” Illya said, unsure if she was actually upset or not. “I, uh…well. Cowboy needed education in 1940s menswear.” 

  
Gaby’s smile widened. 

“Oh,  _ excellent _ ,” she said, looking up at Solo. “Finally someone who will put you in your place.” She gave Solo a knowing look.

Napoleon laughed, a hint of a blush on his cheeks. “Well someone besides you has to do it,” he joked. “Now Peril come here, I wanted to show you and Gaby the latest piece I bought.”

***

Somehow Illya found himself cleaning up the place with Solo and Gaby around two in the morning. Gaby had taken charge of the process, putting Solo on dish washing duty with Illya on drying, while she sat on the counter and swung her lovely legs back and forth. Illya had learned as they talked that Gaby had been Napoleon’s agent since he started in the business, and he had been her first major client.    
  


“There wasn’t much faith put in either of us,” Gaby said, grimacing. “An untested pretty boy and a former mechanic new to the business? We got laughed out of a lot of meetings.” Solo’s brow furrowed, remembering. 

“More the fool them,” he said, scrubbing a serving spatula with vigor. “Anyone who meets you knows you can do anything you put your mind to,” Gaby smiled at him, a different one from the nearly feral look she’d given Illya earlier. This one was soft, and fond. “ _ Danke _ ,  _ liebchen _ ,” she said, toasting him with her drink. “ _ Natürlich _ ,  _ schatz _ ,” Solo returned, smiling affectionately back. 

_ Ah, _ Illya thought. _ It’s more than just a friendship for them _ . He found himself a bit forlorn at the thought, and wasn’t sure why.

“Your accent is quite good,” he said aloud as he placed a champagne flute on the counter. “Where did you study?” 

“I didn’t,” Solo replied. “Early on I did a fair number of films in Eastern Europe - so cheap to produce there, you know - and I picked up a little German, Russian, Polish, a few other languages.” 

“A little?” Illya replied in Russian. “Sounds like more than a little.”

“Maybe more than a little,” Napoleon allowed, also in Russian. “I have an appetite for languages.” The way he was looking at Illya, Illya thought he had an appetite for more than just languages. Or was that just his hopeful imagination? Illya turned to the counter and the moment passed. 

After the dishes were done, Gaby and Illya made their gradual exit. Gaby stood on her toes to kiss Solo on both cheeks, then did the same for Illya. She wasn't staying - maybe he'd been wrong about them. 

As Gaby walked down the path with a wave, Illya turned to Solo, expecting a handshake. Instead Solo leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Illya's cheek. Illya felt his heart flutter - what was he, a teenager? He cleared his throat, awkward. 

“Well, goodnight,” he said, heading down the walk after Gaby. Solo watched him until he was out of sight.

***

Illya was working late one night when his phone buzzed with a new text message. Pausing in his sketch, Illya picked up his phone. An unknown number appeared. 

_ Just came from a showing with Waverly, costumes turned out fantastic, great job! _

Illya had an inkling of who it might be, but asked anyway.

_ Thank you. Who is this? _

His phone buzzed again seconds later. The emoji with a cowboy hat appeared on his screen.

Illya smiled in spite of himself. 

_ Good to hear from you. Glad you are pleased with final product.  _

_ Did you hear they're going to do an Oscar campaign?  _

_ No. Is good idea, Academy loves World War II films. _

_ Nothing like Nazis for that emotional impact. _

_ Such nuance, Cowboy. _

A smiley sticking its tongue out and winking popped up in response.

Illya smiled again and put his phone away.

***

_ you weren't nominated!! that's bullshit!!!!! _

Illya blearily scanned the over-punctuated text, and groaned. 5:09 AM. Of course Solo stayed up to see the nominations. A quick Google showed that  _ Defiance _ had, however, been nominated for many other academy awards, including Best Actor in a Leading Role - Napoleon Solo. 

_ It is all right, that is not why I do the work. Congratulations on your nomination. _

He tapped the message out slowly, sighing heavily. Coffee was needed, soon. 

_ Oh shit sorry did I wake you?  _

_ Yes. Is ok.  _

_ Fuck! sorry. I figured you'd be a deep sleeper. _

Illya paused. Napoleon had thought about what kind of sleeper he was? Unbidden, he remembered the feeling of Solo's lips against his cheek. 

***

A few weeks later, his phone buzzed again. The cowboy emoji looked cheerfully up at him, and Illya quickly hit answer. 

“Hello Cowboy,” Illya greeted him. “How is life as Oscar nominee?” 

“Better than one could ever dream,” Solo said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Men and women throw themselves at me on the street. I am flooded with invitations to many glamorous parties.”

Illya chuckled. “Sounds good. So why are you calling lowly costume designer?” 

“Ah,” said Solo, suddenly awkward. “I, um. I actually had a question for you.” Illya's stomach jumped, just a little. He waited.

“Well, everyone's already bombarding me with 'Who will you wear?!’ and all that about the ceremony and I wondered if - if you would design something for me.”

“You sure you would trust me with it?” Illya said, half-joking. 

“Of course!” Solo said. “Look...I know I gave you a lot of shit during filming but I do really respect you as a designer.” The sincerity in his voice was clear. 

“Ah, well...thank you,” Illya said, unsure how to handle this newfound sincerity. “I would be delighted.” 

“Great!” Illya could hear Solo's grin through the phone. They made plans to meet the following Sunday at Illya's apartment, and hung up. Illya stared at the phone for a minute after, unsure what to make of this excitement running through his veins. A chance to showcase his work as a designer, that's all it was, he said to himself. Not the chance to spend more time with Solo. Certainly not. 

***

“Blue, I think,” Illya said thoughtfully. He looked Napoleon up and down, taking in the various bolts of cloth draped over his wide frame. 

“Oh good, this is helping you choose. I thought you were trying to smother me to death with cloth,” Napoleon replied sardonically. 

“I am still considering it,” Illya said as he picked a dark blue off Napoleon's shoulder. He looked at Solo to see him smiling at him, and found himself giving a small smile back. 

He held the deep navy up next to Solo's face, noting how the color brought out the man's eyes. He found his eyes roaming all over Napoleon's face - his piercing eyes, his classic straight nose, his pink mouth, the curl of black hair falling onto his forehead. He looked at Solo's eyes again and found them transfixed on his mouth. Napoleon's eyes flicked up to meet his own, and the look there nearly took Illya's breath away. Illya cleared his throat and let his hands drop, pulling the bolt off of Solo's shoulder, and the spell was broken. 

“Yes, it will do nicely,” Illya said, setting the cloth aside and gathering the rejected bolts up. “Would you like three piece? Since you are so keen on vests?” 

Solo laughed, easy. It was like the intensity of the moment before had never been there. He had to be imagining the tension, Illya thought. It was gone so quickly every time, he was never sure it had been there at all.

“I think a three piece for the Oscars flies a bit in the face of tradition. For my first nomination I should probably stick with a classic tux.” 

“Good,” Illya said, already full with ideas. “I will get to work right away.”

“Not right away, I hope,” Solo said. Illya looked at him, confused. “Well not right this second, I mean,” Napoleon continued. “Would you like to grab a coffee?” 

Illya hadn’t expected that. He paused for a moment, mentally reviewing the look in Solo’s kitchen, the kiss goodbye, the look just now. 

“Yes,” Illya finally said. “There is a place right down road that is nice.” 

Napoleon grinned, a sincerity spreading across his face that Illya had never seen. 

***

Somehow the first two fittings turned into coffee, then the next two turned into dinner. The word 'date’ never entered the conversation, but the more time they spent together, the more Illya found himself looking forward to Napoleon's company. He was smart, funny, and of course, charming as hell. But Illya found Solo seemed to turn down the charisma for him - he wasn't Napoleon Solo, Actor and Oscar Nominee, just Napoleon. 

Sometimes Gaby would join them for dinner and then Illya would think he was just projecting onto his and Napoleon’s friendship - the way Gaby and Solo played off each other, the teasing banter undergirded with clear affection, they must be something more than agent and client, friend and friend. Illya was content with friendship with them both, if nothing else. Gaby and Napoleon were rapidly becoming good friends to him, which were few and far between in his life. 

***

“So, what do you think?” Illya asked as Napoleon turned in front of the mirror, admiring the finished suit. It was a classic tuxedo, the dark navy nearly shining against Napoleon's skin. He tugged on the cuffs and grinned. 

“I love it!” he said, turning to Illya. “Thank you.” 

“I am glad,” Illya said, gathering up his materials. “I'm sure you will have good time at ceremony.” 

Solo put his hands in his pockets and looked at his feet. Illya put down his scissors and looked at him. “What is it?” 

“Well,” Solo said, his voice nervous, like when he’d asked for Illya to design his suit. “I actually had a question for you about that.” 

“Oh?”

“I was wondering whether you would come with me. As my date.”

“Oh!” Illya said. He immediately felt the inadequacy of his reaction. “I, uh..”

“You wouldn't need to do the red carpet,” Solo said hurriedly, crossing the short distance between them. “who are you wearing, it's an honor to be nominated, blah blah blah. I know you're not big on being front and center. I just… would like you to be there. To be with me. There.” Solo opened his mouth but decided against continuing, and looked at Illya nervously. 

“I thought, uh, you and Gaby…” Illya started, uncomfortable. 

“Oh! No, no,” Solo said, relief clear on his face. “She's my best friend, but that's all.”

“I like you,” he continued, looking softly at Illya. 

So it hadn’t been his imagination. Napoleon had been laying the groundwork for something between them. Illya’s chest felt warm at the thought, and he smiled at the other man.

“I would love to,” he said, and Napoleon grinned at him like he’d granted his greatest wish.

***

Illya nervously tugged on the front of his jacket. Despite not walking the red carpet with Solo, he had picked a striking tux - deep purple, with a Victorian furniture-esque print on the jacket. Was it too much? Would he upstage Solo? God, he really hated Hollywood sometimes. 

It was too late now anyway, Illya thought, and turned to the roped line for non-red carpet attendees. He gave his name to an important looking woman wearing a headset, who checked the list and waved him through. He stepped into the Dolby Theater with the slightest feeling of awe - he'd watched the Oscars many times of course, but there was something impressive about seeing the theater in person. As someone's date, no less. Illya's stomach jumped, and it had nothing to do with the awards.

After being shown to his seat, Illya watched the theater slowly fill and the show's crew and camera people prepare for the broadcast. Finally he spotted a familiar navy blue, and stood to meet Solo as he came up the aisle.

“Great tux!” Solo said as he stopped in front of Illya. “Did you design this one too?” 

“No,” Illya said. “My friend’s work.” Solo looked the suit up and down, and smiled. Then he leaned forward and kissed Illya's cheek - it was chaste, but it made Illya's heart beat faster anyway. 

“How was red carpet?” Illya asked as they sat down. 

“Oh, fine,” Solo said, waving a hand. “Lots of answering the same questions and talking about what an honor it is to be nominated.” He dropped his voice, leaning in toward Illya's ear. “Honestly, I'm terrified. I hope I don't win.” 

Illya leaned in to Solo's space, nearly pressing his lips against his ear as he replied,

“Shame. If you did win, I was going to kiss you.”

Napoleon took a sharp breath in, and Illya turned to find him staring at his lips the way he had in Illya's apartment during their first fitting. Illya's eyes flickered to Napoleon's lips in turn, then back up to his eyes. 

“Well,” Napoleon said, a bit huskier than usual. “In that case, I really hope I win.” 

***

The ceremony mostly passed in a blur, Illya and Solo cheering particularly loudly whenever a team member from  _ Defiance _ won. Many people came by to say hello to Solo during ad breaks - Illya expected to mostly be politely ignored, but Napoleon insisted on introducing him to every single person. Finally the ceremony drew to a close, with only the awards for leading actor, actress, director, and film remaining. 

Through the introduction of the nominees, Solo grew noticeably tense, his normally relaxed face tightening around the jaw. Illya reached out, tentatively at first, then with confidence, and took Solo's hand from his knee and threaded their fingers together. Napoleon turned and gave Illya a small smile, and squeezed his hand. Their hands were still interlaced when Frances McDormand announced “Napoleon Solo -  _ Defiance _ .”

Napoleon looked absolutely dumbstruck - Illya turned and pressed a kiss against his cheek, catching the corner of his mouth. That shook Napoleon out of his astonishment, and he grinned at Illya, then stood to make his way to the stage. Illya clapped until his hands hurt, and watched Solo give his inevitably charming acceptance speech. Solo was ushered offstage, and Illya made his way backstage during the following ad break.

Solo was standing off to the side, looking at his Oscar partly in reverence, partly in bemusement. Illya grinned at the image and said as he walked up, “You're a long way from the ranch now, Cowboy.” 

Napoleon let out a surprised laugh, grinning up at Illya.

“I can't believe I won!” 

“You deserve it,” Illya said warmly. Napoleon took his hand, interlacing their fingers again.

“Thank you for being with me for it,” he said, grateful. “Though,” he continued, with a devilish smile, “I believe there was some talk of a kiss?” 

“Hmm,” Illya said, leaning in toward Solo. Napoleon's breath hitched as he tilted his head back, his mouth slightly open. Illya let his eyes linger on the beautiful picture - Napoleon Solo, hungry for a kiss from him. He started to close the distance, when a voice interrupted - “Solo!  _ Defiance  _ won best picture! They need you onstage!” 

Solo practically groaned aloud as he was ushered away from Illya, reaching out at the last second to grab his hand to drag him onstage beside him.

***

The party was in full swing when they arrived at Waverly’s sprawling mansion - it seemed like the entirety of Los Angeles was in attendance: drinking, dancing, swimming in the infinity pool. This was decidedly  _ not _ Illya’s sort of social event, but with Napoleon’s hand in his he felt better about it. They were immediately swamped by people when they came through the door - how did it feel, where had he put the statue, what roles was he going to take next, as an  _ Academy Award winner _ ? Napoleon answered and deflected charmingly as only he could, and quickly extricated them to find Gaby in a marginally quieter part of the party near the pool. She gave them both bone-crushing hugs and fixed them vodka tonics so they could all toast to Napoleon’s success together. 

“To many more awards and many more parties,” she said, lifting her glass. They toasted her and sipped their drinks. Suddenly Gaby giggled. 

“Oh my god, Napoleon,” she said. “Remember after  _ The Magnificent Seven _ premiere when you jumped in the pool?”

“Oh my god,” Napoleon said, laughing. “I was so drunk. What a mess. I was just so excited!” He looked up at Illya. “My first big movie premiere. I was downright giddy.” 

“Somehow I cannot imagine you giddy,” Illya said. “Drunk, definitely.” Solo dropped Illya’s hand so he could elbow him in the ribs. Gaby laughed.

“You should jump in now,” Gaby told Solo, her eyes sparkling. “A celebratory dip.” 

“What!” Solo said. “Gaby, are you insane? Have you seen this magnificent tux? Illya worked hard on it and I, for one, am not going to ruin a custom Kuryakin.” 

Illya looked down at Solo, considering. They were quite close to the edge of the pool…

“Wha--” Solo’s cry was cut off with a splash as Illya placed his huge palm on Napoleon’s chest and shoved him directly into the pool. Gaby laughed delightedly, toasting Illya, and he gave a little bow in return. He turned to see Solo coming up for air, absolutely soaked, and enjoyed the view of Napoleon’s hair dripping wet and no longer perfectly coiffed. 

“You will pay for this, Peril,” Napoleon threatened, though he was smiling. “All of Russia will pay.”

“I am not scared of you, Cowboy,” Illya scoffed, crossing his arms. 

“No,” Napoleon said, his smile turning wicked. “But you should be scared of her.”   
  
And that was how Illya found himself also in the pool, soaking wet, as Gaby laughed above them and triumphantly sipped her drink. Illya grinned and splashed water at Napoleon.

“Is not fair, you have ally,” Illya said.

“Between the two of us I think we almost equal your size, Peril,” Napoleon said. “So it’s a fair fight.” Illya laughed, drinking in the sight of Napoleon in the pool. His hair was plastered across his forehead, curling gently in a way that made Illya want to run his hands through it. His tux shirt had become transparent the second he hit the water, and Illya was definitely enjoying the excellent view underneath it. Catching where his eyes were, Napoleon looked at Illya and grinned. There was a spark, a bite behind that grin that made a shiver run down Illya’s spine.

“Well I suppose you’ll be wanting towels,” said a long-suffering voice above them. The two of them looked up to see Waverly looking slightly amused and slightly put out, but too British to say anything about it, above them. Illya climbed out of the pool and helped Napoleon out after, letting Waverly usher them to a guest bedroom and ply them with soft terry cloth towels. He pointed them in the direction of spare clothes - “Though I don’t know if I have anything that will fit you, Kuryakin” - and left them to dry off. 

Napoleon grinned at Illya again, impish, and Illya found himself mirroring it. His face almost hurt from smiling so much. 

“That was fun,” Solo said, stripping his jacket and shirt off and wrapping a towel around his shoulders. 

“Just do not make habit of it,” Illya replied, following suit. The towel barely fit around his shoulder, so he draped it around his neck instead. “You will catch too many colds.” 

He turned to find Napoleon running his eyes up and down his torso, taking in the sight of him shirtless, still a little wet. The look in Solo’s eyes sent a burst of heat to Illya’s belly. He closed the distance between them, reaching tentatively for Napoleon’s hips. Napoleon moved to meet him, his face suddenly serious. His hands came up to rest on Illya’s arms, stroking lightly from his shoulders down. 

“I think,” Illya said, bending slightly forward to bring his face closer to Solo’s, “you are still owed a kiss.” Napoleon hummed, and smiled, small and sweet. Illya lifted a hand to cup the other man’s cheek and gently closed the distance between their lips. 

Napoleon hummed again as their lips met, and Illya rumbled in response, opening his lips and slowly sliding his tongue into Napoleon’s mouth. Solo nearly growled at that and opened his mouth wider, letting Illya explore every inch of him. He tasted like vodka and chlorine and it was too much - it wasn’t enough - it would never be enough. Illya tightened his hold on Solo’s hip and face and took a deep breath that nearly ended in a shudder. Napoleon’s hands slid to Illya’s back, pulling them closer and holding Illya against him securely. 

It had been so long since Illya had been this close to anyone, and it felt so right with Napoleon. Suddenly he knew what Solo had meant about feeling giddy - he wanted to lift Napoleon off his feet and swing him around, like they were in a ridiculous romantic comedy. He smiled at the image and felt Napoleon smile back. Illya kissed him lightly on the lips once more before pulling away. They stared into each other’s eyes for a moment, seeing their happiness mirrored in the other’s face. 

“We ought to go home,” Solo said finally. “Get out of these wet clothes.” 

Illya cocked an eyebrow.

“And what might we do after that?” he asked, leaning forward again to hold his lips just above Napoleon’s.

“Oh,” said Solo. “I have a few ideas.” 


End file.
